The Fifth Night
by HappierThanMost
Summary: Ponyboy's thoughts after his parents' funeral


_I've decided to drop back in on that hard first week that the boys lost their parents. We heard from Darry in The Second Night, but let's check in on Ponyboy and see his thoughts on..._

 **THE FIFTH NIGHT**

Two-Bit's car door slam is a hurling echo bouncing off the walls of my bedroom, and his motor revving means the last car is heading out for the night and nobody's left but us. I'm the weakest brother and everyone knows it, hiding back here the whole afternoon. Wouldn't even answer to Johnny awhile ago. And now just imagining him on the other side of that door, gently knocking and his worried voice asking to come in, starts my crying up again. My head and face are throbbing from being scrunched up all day, pouring tears and snot all over my pillow and earlier, all over Darry's shoulder.

I feel guilty leaving my brothers to do all the work after we got home from the funeral. I know they didn't want to be shaking the hands of Dad's work buddies, or getting instructions from the neighborhood ladies on how to heat up their casseroles. But they did it, cause they're strong and I'm not. It's always been that way.

Now the dark shrouds our little house and it's probably only five o'clock. But winter's five is summer's ten. The nights sure run long in the harshest months and none could be meaner than this one. I don't even bother with a lamp; my eyes are swollen to slits I can't see out of anyway.

I hear Darry let out a sigh as his heavy steps get louder, but his knock is quiet, even quieter than Johnny's and that's saying something, cause Darry don't do much of anything softly. He doesn't wait for the answer I never planned to give, and I hear him swipe the bobby pin Mom keeps above our doors and swiftly picks his way in. "Ponyboy, I want you to have some food ok?" His voice is more tired than I've ever heard it, and it scares me.

I'm faced away from the intruding light of the hallway, and it's easier to talk to Darry's shadow against the wall than it is to turn and let him see how messed up I am. "Please don't make me eat Darry." My voice is as shaky as the quivering of nausea that sits in the pit of my stomach.

I watch Soda's shorter, leaner shadow join Darry's on my fading wallpaper and I can tell Darry's turning to him, probably giving him the look, the one that says he's at a loss with me, the kid, the one he can never seem to get.

"Pony, we've got a pot pie heatin' up. Now c'mon out and have some." Soda's voice is set on soothe, but only ends up sounding warped, since he hasn't yet been able to soothe himself. Who would expect him to? He's really only a boy himself. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth and struggle against the painful lightning that just shot through my chest.

They give up easily, and I don't blame them, walking away but leaving my door open, not allowing me the peace of privacy, expecting me to whimper and wail for all to hear. They go to the room they share, start taking off their Sunday clothes, their funeral clothes, and I look at mine wadded up on the floor by my bed. I have an urge to set them on fire, and I picture them in flames, turning to a heap of ashes that I shovel out my window where the wind can carry them away from me.

The muffled voices of my brothers have always been just beyond my wall, their familiar patterns and cadences that I've listened to since I could remember. Overhearing only the sounds, no words of their secret conversations, always wondering what they talked about over thousands upon thousands of nights, rocking me to sleep before I could even dream up the possibilities. My life as the baby brother has made me feel protected, shielded, special but separated. It's all I've known. The feel of being left out has become, over the years, my comfort.

While they're out of the picture I take a trip to the bathroom. I struggle to sit up with a head that feels like a hundred pounds, aching and pulsating. I haven't been able to take a full breath through my nose in almost a week. Chills spread through my joints as I hurry down the hallway in only my underwear. Darry emerges and I'm caught in his sight, but I keep my head down when I pass him, hoping he can't see all of Grief's bruises she's left on my face.

I wash my hands but leave the sink on and blow my nose hard into toilet paper, the water covering the noise, but while the snot's all gone, my head still feels clogged and no air is ever gonna make it through these failing passageways. I suppose I'll live out the rest of my days as a mouth breather. And I stare in the mirror, and wonder if my mother can see me like this, all lost and broken. Father Pat told me she's in Heaven and I believe him. But I can't imagine her being very happy up there when they won't even let her hold or comfort her sons and make them feel better, like she's been used to doing. So I guess maybe in Heaven, God doesn't let you see sadness here on Earth. I hope not anyway.

When I think the coast is clear I open the door, only to find Darry leaned against his, arms crossed over his OSU shirt, waiting for me. He drops his arms and walks over to stand right in front of me, tall and big as hell, and I still won't look up at him, while he tells me, soft but firm, "I don't care if you come to the table in just that or naked as a jaybird, but you're comin' out of that room and at least sittin' with me and Soda for a little bit." Darry's method of leaving me no choice has plagued me all my life, and sometimes I feel like fighting against him only to lose, while other times I feel like going ahead and giving in right off the bat, submit myself to whatever he's telling me to do. Right now, I almost welcome it.

I don't say anything back, just walk to my room for my clothes, only cause I'm cold. Otherwise I would've taken him up on his offer to sit in the kitchen in my underwear. Nothing in this house feels the same and never will again, so why bother dressing for dinner? I pull a sweatshirt off my lampshade and a pair of jeans off my record player, and I slip them on, now feeling more numb than anything, while Darry's out there telling Soda not to mess with the furnace thermostat. It'll be a miracle if Darry doesn't freeze us all to death by spring.

I walk to the kitchen and I almost lose it again when Soda gives me his smile, swinging a dish towel over his shoulder. "Good. You belong out here with us."

The kitchen feels warmer from the oven and for the first time, I smell something that sparks my appetite a little. We've eaten nothing but cereal this whole week, not that I care, but I look at Soda pulling out Mrs. Thompson's pot pie and wonder what we'll eat when the casseroles run out. I did hear that Mrs. Mathews brought in three lasagnas for our freezer so I guess that'll buy us some time. I've never had to think about where my food's gonna come from. My mother just scooped it on our plates every night. I can't imagine Darry's gonna wear an apron and prance around the kitchen like Mom did, batting me away with a smile and a wink when I try and swipe a finger of potatoes he's mashing up. I really don't see how any of this is going to work. Is anyone else here worried but me?

"Okay, I've got the fire goin', that'll help," Darry says coming in from the living room, bringing a rush of cold air he carries with him from being outside at the wood pile. He grabs two of the plates Soda's prepared and motions for me to pick up the other one. "Let's go eat in there where it's warm." So we follow him to the couch, Soda trailing with the drinks and we set up our supper at the coffee table, using Mom's magazines as placemats. For us, it's unconventional and for me, it's less painful. I still can't get used to our empty dining chairs. Maybe they can't either.

I look at Darry while he eats, his steely eyes fixed on the TV while he chews. I've never seen him cry. Maybe once or twice when he was little but I was so young I barely remember. The only time today I saw him hint at his emotions was when his coach and some football buddies at Oklahoma State showed up from Stillwater. I was standing next to him when he sucked in a surprised breath and then whispered to himself, "I can't believe they came." His smile looked more sad than happy and his voice was choked when he greeted them, hugging everyone. It was weird seeing Darry around a group of guys as big or bigger than him. But that moment of Darry being touched was about it. I guess if our parents dying doesn't move him to tears, nothing will. Has he really not cried at all this past week? I guess I'm glad for that, cause I'm not really sure how I'd handle it.

"Man, I'm so glad today's over," Soda sighs. "That was beyond brutal," and he shakes his head at the mere thought of it, before he takes a drink of milk. He looks exhausted, but genuinely relieved that we survived the day, perhaps finding a little closure in putting the burials behind us. His voice does seem a tad lighter than I've heard it in the last five days. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Soda's found a way to soothe himself. He's always been the most hopeful person I've ever known, always looking forward.

"I'm sorry I left y'all today, not helping host everybody," I blurt out, trying to stab a pea that keeps getting away in the slippery gravy. Out of the corner of my eye I see Darry turn from the TV to look at me.

Soda immediately says, "Aw Pony don't worry. You didn't miss much of nothin', ain't that right Darry?"

I slowly look up at Darry, the fire he built crackling behind him. He's eyeing me while he's taking a drink of his Dr. Pepper. Then he shakes his head. "There was nothing for you to help with," and I exhale a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Darry's still going on about it, " I have no idea why that damn custom ever started anyway. Why should people have to throw a party after they just buried somebody? Dumbest thing I ever heard."

"I guess so they can give us good food," Soda shrugs and tries to state a positive. "And this chicken pot pie is outta sight. I swear I could drink this gravy. In a glass. From a straw. Suck it all up." He makes a slurping noise but he's dead serious. We tell him he's disgusting, that he's ruining our meal, question his sanity like normal, and I notice we're smiling, even me. Then I remember my Mom and Dad are in the ground. And I swallow down a lump that sprouted up.

It's only eight when we finish, but we all look sleepy and nothing's on TV anyway. Darry thinks we should turn in, even though he has to stay up a bit to look over some paperwork. "Tomorrow's a new day boys," he says, using Dad's old line, and Soda chuckles but quickly wipes an eye, and for once I'm not falling apart. I just feel empty, out of energy and tears.

Soda and I brush our teeth, get ready for bed without much conversation and my mouth slurs out a goodnight, too tired to form proper words. Soda hugs me and whispers in my ear that I don't need to worry with anything, that the hard part's over and he and Darry have everything under control. His toothpaste breath on my neck is minty cold and hot all at once. My body relaxes to the point of limp and I let him hold me tighter. "Are we gonna starve Soda?" I ask against his chest and I feel it vibrate with laughter.

"No Ponyboy, we ain't gonna let you starve," and I feel a little better.

I take off my clothes and climb into freezing sheets. I lie there and worry about how cold my parents are tonight. If I'm cold I can't imagine what six feet underground feels like right now. But today, when I looked at their caskets, Darry squeezed my hand and told me, "That ain't them Pony," while clouds of incense floated around us. "Those are just their bodies in those boxes."

I can't sleep. Their caskets were closed. I have a million questions.

I wrap myself in my plaid blanket and walk to the living room to find Darry sitting on the floor, spreading out papers all over the coffee table. He looks like I remember him years ago, working on high school projects, taking them as seriously as he did his sports, tackling them with the same force as his opponents. He hears me and looks up, the fire reflecting in his glasses. "What's wrong?" he asks me, expecting the worst.

I suddenly feel shy and lose my words, so I clear my throat and look around the room, taking in the pictures and gathering my nerves before I look him dead on. "What'd they look like?" I ask bluntly. "I know you saw 'em. Were they torn to pieces?"

Darry's eyes grow wide, but just as quickly return to their normal size. He's uncomfortable. I can tell. We stare at each other, and he allows the seconds to pass between us, and now I'm the one uncomfortable. Finally, he takes a breath and says, "They had a lot of cuts and a lot of bruises. They weren't torn apart."

Somehow I know I'm not hearing the whole truth, but I'm glad he's spared me. "Did you put her in that dress? The yellow one?"

Darry lays his pencil down and nods, his half-smile as tender as it is mournful. "Yes," he says softly, almost like a whisper, "the one you wanted, with the short sleeves."

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _I always feel the need to write their innocence after I update the Trip. Thanks for putting up with my jumping back and forth. And for reading!_


End file.
